


Need You Now

by Cruciothelights



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reunion, Songfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-10
Updated: 2012-07-10
Packaged: 2017-11-09 13:44:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cruciothelights/pseuds/Cruciothelights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another shot of whiskey, can’t stop looking at the door.<br/>Wish you’d come sweeping in the way you did before.</p><p>I'm being lame and writing a songfic. Might continue into a reunion fic if there's any interest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Need You Now

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd. Enjoy.  
> Song: Need You Now by Lady Antebellum.

_It’s a quarter after one, I’m a little drunk and I need you now._

_I said I wouldn’t call but I lost all control and I need you now._

_And I don’t know how I can do without, I just need you now._

 

“This number is no longer in service, please dial the number and try again.”

 

The phone was dropped on the counter top, abandoned as its owner took another swig from the bottle (Whiskey. It’d never really been his kind of drink). Ungracefully, he spluttered, swallowing it back as the liquid burned down his throat. Glancing at the clock, he snorted. Quarter after one. He’d been drinking since eight, when he got back from his shift at the clinic (Sarah obviously pitied him). He’d been wondering whether to call him since eight thirty, he gave in, eventually. That longing feeling had become too much. So much longing. So much pain.

 

He could already hear Sherlock’s scolding; “John, don’t be pathetic. You’re being so ordinary. So boring!”

 

Sherlock Holmes had been dead two years to the day. Two years since he took the plunge off the roof of St Barts. John could no longer walk past that hospital without feeling sick. Actually, he could barely walk down the same street. The nausea made him dizzy and the flashbacks overwhelmed him. There was definitely no chance of him dropping by the morgue to see Molly now. Not that he would. Molly would barely talk to him; Sherlock having been their only common factor. They both loved a man who could never love back. The only time he thought that it was possible that Sherlock could have his emotions exposed, was in their last conversation. Over the phone. He couldn’t see his face, and Sherlock Holmes was a very, very good actor. He hardly knew what was a lie anymore.

 

_“You machine. Sod this. Sod this- You stay here if you want, on your own.”_

_“Alone is what I have, alone protects me.”_

_“No. Friends protect people.”_

 

Jesus. He was such a hypocrite. He couldn’t protect Sherlock from that fall. He wasn’t there to catch him. And now he was alone. In the early hours of the morning, drinking a bottle of whiskey he had left over from a Christmas with his sister. Lestrade had tried to convince him to stop drinking. It didn’t really work. Mrs Hudson had stopped coming around when he yelled at her one morning when she came to clean up. She touched his skull. That just wouldn’t do.

 

_Another shot of whiskey, can’t stop looking at the door._

_Wish you’d come sweeping in the way you did before._

 

Sherlock swept in the door, his harpoon thumping on the ground as he stood, so obviously asking for attention, head held high. John looked up from his newspaper, holding back his smirk;

 

_“Well that was tedious.”_

_“You went on the tube like that?”_

_“None of the cabs would take me.”_

 

He wanted so badly for Sherlock to come waltzing in, raving about his most recent case and how ridiculously pathetic the police were being. But nothing. For a full two years. It was quite possible that John was going mad. He constantly saw Sherlock’s coat or his curls in a crowd, or a flourish of man around a corner, and he presumed it was just his paranoia. But every time it happened, his chest constricted and his knee locked up, and he’d stop for five minutes, catching his breath. Sherlock had ruined him.

 

_I guess I’d rather hurt than feel nothing at all._

 

He finished the Whiskey and sniffed, wiping his eyes. He hadn’t even realised that he’d been tearing up. His hands shook as he walked over to Sherlock’s bedroom door. He’d not been in there since the week Sherlock died, but the urge was much too strong to ignore. He pushed through the door, shuddering as the smell of pure… Sherlock overwhelmed him. He picked up the familiar scarf and sniffed it tentatively. He dropped to the bed and smiled a little, a few tears tracking down his cheeks. There was nothing he could do about the fact he never told Sherlock how he felt. That Sherlock was the most extraordinary person he’d ever met, and he was doomed from the beginning. Sherlock was the exception to the rule. He considered himself as straight as an arrow, but he would drop anything for the brilliant man he called his best friend. If he were to be completely honest with himself, he’d drop his pants for Sherlock too. God knows he fantasised about it many times when he needed a quick wank.

 

John laughed at himself, laying back against the pillows, engulfed in Sherlock’s scent, letting his mind wander.

 

_Sentiment._


End file.
